


These Unarmoured Parts

by sithmarauder



Series: Metamorphoses [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Politics, Appropriate Use of the Force, Assassination Attempt(s), Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, M/M, Secret Marriage, Secret Relationship, Senator Ben Solo, Senator Kylo Ren, They are PARTNERS who LOVE EACH OTHER, even if they sometimes want to strangle one another, that Skywalker obstinacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24775210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithmarauder/pseuds/sithmarauder
Summary: "People want yourhead, Ben, and I’m worried that one day someone will succeed and I’ll wake up and hear the news of myhusband’s deaththrough the damnholonet!"Senator Amidala survives an assassination attempt.  Poe Dameron learns that Ben’s been keeping secrets.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Poe Dameron/Kylo Ren
Series: Metamorphoses [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/413814
Comments: 9
Kudos: 30





	These Unarmoured Parts

**Author's Note:**

> Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you.
> 
> Shoutout to [proudspires](https://proudspires.tumblr.com/), who is the sole reason for my creative output these days. This fic would not exist without her.

> _"What you love is your fate."_
> 
> \- Frank Bidart, 1984

The worst part of it was that it had been allowed to happen at _all_. Poe was adamant on that fact, would be adamant about it until the day he died, but while that might have been the worst part, the fact that he hadn’t heard about it from the one person who _should have told him_ was what was currently propelling him across the galaxy at breakneck speeds, pushing _Black One’s_ limits as far as he dared all while ignoring BB-8’s frantic and indignant communications.

“Sorry, buddy, but not now,” Poe said, grimacing as they exited hyperspace, his hands clenched so tightly on the controls he genuinely worried that they would snap before he would be able to bring them in for a safe enough landing. _Landing_ , he thought, biting back the instinctive scoff even as he considered whether it would be faster to just crash the ship into the nearest Chandrilan landing pad and bail. If he thought it would get him to his destination any faster, he just might have gone for it, and _that_ , more than anything, quelled the rage in his chest just long enough for him to take a deep breath and compartmentalise like the leader he was damn well _supposed_ to be.

He was better than this, he _had_ to be better than this, and he clung stubbornly to that thought even as he brought _Black One_ in for what must have been the quickest docking of his career, barking his credentials at the Senate guards that had come to swarm him in a show of temper that he knew would have raised General Organa’s eyebrows.

 _Skywalkers_ , Poe thought darkly, only pausing long enough to give instructions regarding BB-8 before he was storming down the well-worn path before him, the red around his vision slowly fading with every step, only to form a block of cold, hard rage in his chest that made every step feel like lead.

The Chandrila Senate house was still in an uproar which, in political terms, meant it was currently swarmed with reporters from every swath and cesspool of the galaxy, each and every one of them trying to get in on the story even as the guards did their best to keep order. It was times like this that made Poe pathetically grateful for how familiar he was with the place, for it made it all too easy to avoid them, carrion creatures that they were, and he slipped into the familiar shadows with clenched teeth and even tighter fists, his destination clear in his mind.

What he expected to find when he arrived there he did not know, but that was a problem for the future.

“—explosion in the Council Chambers today—” blared from one of the holoprojectors, the voice of the official news liaison to the Galactic Senate measured and even, a welcome respite against the chaos. Less welcome was the news itself, and the face the ‘proj switched to display after that, familiar and beloved and—

Poe stopped. Took another deep breath.

_Hell, what a nightmare._

A mirthless chuckle left him, and he buried his face briefly in his hands, sucking in one long, deep breath, letting the air sit in his lungs until they _burned_ before he released it, shoulders slumping. The cold rage in his chest was heavy, a dead weight, but Poe knew himself well enough to know that it wasn’t anger coating the back of his throat but _fear_ , and he had always made his worst decisions when afraid like this, rare as it was. He could not afford to make a mistake, not now, and so he summoned the veneer of the commander he was supposed to be, the commander General Organa _trusted_ him to be, and he waited until the faint shaking of his hands had subsided long enough for his breathing to return to a more regular rate; until he could straighten his shoulders and resume his walk, careful to avoid everyone else until he had reached his destination.

It wasn’t until he was literally standing _in front of the damned door_ that he thought to wonder whether Ben was even _t_ _here,_ but he dismissed those doubts with a snort. He was, Poe knew it, as he always knew where Ben was, as if Ben would be anywhere _else_ even _after—_

 _No_ , Poe thought fiercely, and with that thought he keyed in the code he knew as surely as he knew the back of his own hand, and walked into a new sort of chaos.

“—new security measures will have to be put in place. We will not gamble with your safety, Senator Amidala.”

“No,” Poe said lowly, standing his ground as six pairs of eyes affixed to him, each of them irrelevant save one, “you absolutely will not.”

That Ben Amidala was the most striking figure in the room even in torn, dusty robes with dried blood staining the side of his face was an affront to some sort of deity, Poe was sure. Then again, he wasn’t surprised. Ben’s element had always been battle, and he had always looked his best wearing the remnants of it.

There was no surprise flickering in those expressive eyes, and Poe knew Ben had sensed his arrival before he had even entered the room—had likely been aware of Poe’s presence since he had landed on the damn planet, even, and had been simply waiting for Poe to show his face. That was fine. The surprise on the faces of the others was enough to make up for it, with only Commander Sella registering an emotion other than shock, though it was dampened by the fatigue even Poe, Force-null as he was, could feel rolling off of her in waves.

“Commander Dameron,” she said, resigned, and he saw some of the others in the room stiffen with shock. His name wasn't unknown in the New Republic, not with his parents being who they were, or Poe's own former title within their ranks being what it was. He was sure there had been talk when one of the New Republic's commanders had jumped ship to join with the woman they had once hailed as _hero_ but now railed against as a _warmonger_ , but Poe hadn't cared for the opinions of fools and sycophants then, and he sure as hell didn't now. It was a risk coming here, a risk that would bring unwanted scrutiny towards Ben and his relationship with a former rank pilot, but Poe didn't care _—_ _couldn't_ care, not when he could see the dark crimson staining the delicate embroidery on Ben's lavish, desert-coloured robes; the exhaustion that pulled at his eyes.

"This is highly irregular," the Kel Dor senator said, voice stiff, but Poe could read the shakiness of it. Another senator, human, but with delicate tattoos decorating his deceptively young face, looked to Ben, worry clear in his eyes.

"Senator Amidala? You know this man?"

Poe’s mouth quirked into a mirthless smile, but he did not break eye contact with Ben, who had remained seated, only moving to bat away the medical droid that was still desperately trying to apply bacta to both the wound at his hairline and he had apparently taken to the neck and shoulder. _Know this man?_ Poe thought with a bitter edge that surprised even him in its intensity. _If only you_ knew.

“Everyone, leave us,” Ben said at last, his voice raspy— _smoke inhalation_ , Poe’s inner strategist noted—but infused with that little _push_ that Poe, through many years of watching Ben at work, had come to know meant a liberal and unwise application of the Force.

“Senator Amidala—” the second senator was saying, _begging_ , but Ben’s mouth twisted into an expression that was far less blank and benign than the one he had been wearing when Poe entered, and the senator cut himself off with a shudder and a slump of his shoulders. Poe vaguely recognized the man as the senator from Naboo, and it took no leap of brain power to identify the others as the Chandrilan senator and a series of bodyguards.

“Senator Nanshe. _Josias_.” Ben fixed the tattooed man with an intense look, and Poe could practically _feel_ the swirl of the Force around them. Josias Nanshe sucked in a deep breath, feeling the brunt of it, even unaware of its true nature as Poe knew he was. Commander Sella was quick to usher the others out only moments later, shooting Poe a quelling _look_ as Poe snatched the medical supplies from the medidroid, before the door slid shut behind them all and they were left not with silence, no, for the chaos outside was too loud to truly find silence here, in the state rooms allotted to Ben for his occasional stays in Chandrila, but _stasis_.

Poe broke it first, moving to stand in front of Ben, bacta packs and sprays in hand. In times past, it would have been Ben moving—little Ben Organa, who had always played with being still one moment and filled with restless energy the next, who had been sacrificed to the persona of _Ben Amidala_ when Ben had left Luke and the Jedi behind, filled with bitterness and rage and a desire to do _more_ than the limited code of a long-dead order would allow him. Now, well.

Things had changed. _But not the things that matter_ , Poe thought, fear mingling with a love so strong it stole his speech from him. So, without word, he reached out, fingers settling under Ben’s chin to lift it.

“Do _not_ fucking talk to me,” he said, voice deathly calm, but Poe was no fool, and he knew that Ben, _his_ Ben, who had been his before he had belonged to the public eye, would be able to feel the emotions pouring off of him in _spades_. _Did_ feel them, if the wariness in his eyes and the grim twist to his mouth were any indication. Poe kept them in that tableau for a moment longer before he began the task of cleaning the wound first at Ben’s hairline, brushing aside the strands that had escaped the single elaborate braid he wore, interspersed with golden thread and precious stones. He had no doubt that every piece had been perfectly in place that morning, but Poe could see where patches of them were missing, and even the darkness of Ben’s hair could not hide the damage done to the gold threads from the smoke and ash.

Poe’s hands stilled for a moment. He breathed once: _in, out_. Then he continued, his focus narrowing down to the wounds Ben had left untreated, another example of the man's complete disregard for his own care, something as familiar to Poe as it was vexing. He thought, again: _Skywalkers._

The elaborate robe came next, and Poe was less than gentle as he pushed it off of Ben’s broad shoulders, tearing at fastenings and decorations to get at the marred skin underneath, letting it pool unceremoniously at Ben’s waist. If Ben felt any pain as Poe carefully pulled pieces of shrapnel from the wound, however, he said nothing, his eyes never leaving Poe as applied the bacta spray and followed it up with a patch.

There were more wounds. There had to be, judging from the state of Ben’s appearance, and Poe could already see deep, dark bruises forming against pale skin, but Ben was growing restless, his jaw clenched so tight Poe was worried one or both of them might spontaneously combust if they danced around this any longer, and so Poe took a step back, took a breath _in,_ and—

“You’re angry.”

Ben’s observation, blunt as they always were, was the tipping point, and any control Poe had been able to regain over his frayed emotions was abruptly _gone_ as he stalked forward, hands reaching out to do stars knew _what_ before he aborted the gesture.

“Angry,” he said tightly, “doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it.” Ben’s brow creased, his body shifting where he sat, but Poe barrelled on, committed now to this course. “Were you going to tell me, Ben? Twelve hours, and not a word. Did you think we wouldn’t _hear_ about it all the way out there, or that our contacts here would not get news to us that the general’s _son_ had almost _died_ in an explosion _targeting him?_ People want your _head_ _,_ Ben, and I’m worried that one day someone will _succeed_ and I’ll wake up and hear the news of my _husband’s death_ through the damn _holonet_!”

“It’s hardly the first time.”

Poe had known anger before. Anger had been what had driven him, in part, to join up with the New Republic in the first place, and it had been that same anger that had prompted him to leave it behind when it became clear that the New Republic was less interested in actual reform and more in returning the Republic to its _status quo ante bellum._ Anger was a familiar feeling in his chest, one he reigned in daily, redirecting it to a better purpose, using it to fuel his drive and determination and his will to ensure that everything his parents had fought for had not been in vain. This—this was beyond anger, beyond _fear_ , even, and _that_ was terrifying in and of itself, this nameless thing in his chest, which rushed to fill every corner of his body, flooding it with a white-hot _something_ that smelled of smoke and fear and anger and love and _absolute horror and terror and_ —

His hands were on Ben before he could stop himself, and then he was hauling the idiot man he had bound to himself body and soul into an aggressive, frantic kiss, hands clutching desperately at the side of Ben’s face, sliding into his hair, mussing the long braid even further as his fingers tangled in impossibly dark hair, freeing it of its confine. He did not even realise he was weeping quietly until Ben’s hands came up to brush the tears away, steady in a way only one who was bred for war could achieve. Ben was speaking, his voice low and familiar, and _stars_ if only the general could see him now, a complete _wreck_ in a way he never allowed himself to be, except for this foolish _idiot_ man that he had married and almost _lost_ , who saw the broken, imperfect pieces of Poe’s soul and took them into himself, guarding them jealously against the world, as Poe did for him in turn.

He had almost lost those pieces of himself as surely as he had almost lost Ben, and with that realisation came the unpleasant recognition that if he ever _did_ lose Ben, the man who would look back at Poe in the mirror from that day forward would not be a man he wanted to know. Was this the fear that Ben had always talked about when his spoke of the dark side? The all-consuming rage, the sacrifice of everything that one was to a never-ending surge of passion and _hatred_ for the galaxy at large and all who dwelled within its light—the terrifying _willingness_ to make that sacrifice in the first place?

Poe shuddered, leaning forward, resting his head against Ben’s, hands still framing the other man’s face. Ben said nothing, but Poe could feel his presence lingering at the corners of his mind, and with a broken sigh he lowered his perfunctory defences, allowing Ben to fill his mind with all that he was; all that they were _together_. In that mingled presence, Poe tasted his own fear, but also the fear Ben felt every time he flew off on another mission, every time he vanished into the seedy underbelly of the galaxy at the behest of Ben’s own mother. His hands fell from Ben’s face, one hand landing on the braid, which spilled gently over the front of Ben’s shoulder and down, long enough to cover both the patched wound on his neck and the mess of his collarbone.

“I’m still mad at you,” Poe said after a beat. He could not see Ben’s face, but he felt his husband’s sigh; felt the way Ben turned his head, nose nudging gently at Poe’s cheek before familiar lips were pressing against the stubbled skin there.

“I would have you stay with me right now even so, rage and all.”

Poe stepped back just enough to be able to get a hand under Ben’s chin again, lifting it. The dark eyes he loved so much were framed with gold powder that shimmered in the light, but the gold on his cracked and bloodied lips was smeared, and one of the matching dots on his cheek was missing. He wasn’t the most beautiful sight Poe had ever seen, but he was alive, and he was _Poe’s_ , and Poe could refuse Ben a lot of things, as Ben could refuse him, but he _wouldn’t_ , not now.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Poe said. “For now, we need to get you home.”

Ben’s mouth twisted again. “The press will be waiting.”

“Let them wait,” Poe said fiercely. The anger still burned in his chest, but now, with the edge of it slowly ebbing with the reassurance of Ben’s presence, he found he could harness it better; redirect it, as he always did, as he had to do. _Let those creatures just try to stop us_ , he thought darkly, even as he formulated an escape plan that would have them avoiding every major exit.

But Ben’s eyes had darkened, his expression hardening. Poe knew that look; knew what would come out of the other man’s mouth the moment before he spoke.

“I will address them _now_ ,” Ben said, eyes flashing. “They will see me as I am, and my enemies will know that I will not be beaten so easily. Nor will I hide like a coward.” He looked at the robe still pooled at his waist, and with little more than a grimace, shrugged it back on, heedless of the newly-patched wounds. Poe, knowing a losing battle when he saw one, grimaced, but he would not be brushed off. If Ben was so determined to be an idiot, then the least Poe could do was be an idiot with him, so he batted Ben’s hands away, refastening the fitted robe himself, ensuring every last clasp was done up where possible. Then, wordlessly, he tugged at the band holding Ben’s mostly-freed hair together at the ends, and moved behind the infuriating man he called _husband_ to begin the process of rebraiding until one thick, simple braid ran from Ben’s scalp to the area between his shoulder blades, devoid of any of Senator Amidala’s typical adornments. With his desert robes still stained with his own blood and his hair redone, he looked like a man marching off to a war.

At the end of the day, Poe thought darkly, it was an apt description, one that held more truth that he would have liked.

“I am going with you. No arguments,” Poe said. Ben just nodded. He, too, knew a losing battle when he saw one. _Sometimes._ “Then, the _moment_ you are finished, we leave. We go home. The press can’t have you, not tonight. Tonight, Ben Organa, you are _mine_ , and when you speak to them again, when you address the Senate again, I want to make sure every inch of your body is covered with proof of that claim. Do you understand?”

Ben Amidala was a creature of fantasy, a created persona; a means to further an end. He was a glittering jewel among the Senate, as controversial as he was unwittingly commanding, and to them he had to appear calm and collected, the rage and the darkness that Poe _knew_ existed inside of him suppressed and tucked away so that he could _lead_ , but Poe knew Ben, knew what that command cost him; knew that such command did not sit as comfortably on Ben’s shoulders the way it did on Poe’s own. Ben may play at being composed now, but Poe had tasted more than Ben’s own fear when their minds had slid together, and he knew that if he allowed Ben to continue as he was, a weapon without a firm hand to guide it, then, well.

 _Well_. Poe picked up a pot of gold paint from the nearby vanity, opening it with deft hands.

“Ben,” Poe said as Ben rose to his feet, looking over his shoulder. He blinked once, slowly, but allowed Poe to reapply the paint to his lips, to his cheeks, and stood perfectly still as Poe stepped back to survey his work. Poe nodded once, sharply. He could still feel the rage boiling between them, a dark voided chasm that seemed at once ever-widening, but he could redirect it enough for the both of them. For now. There would be discussions later, Poe had damn well meant that, but the lives they had chosen meant that the collective came before the individual, and so they would both don their respective armours— _lies—_ once more and they would fucking _march_ until every single one of their enemies had no choice but to recoil from their presence.

“Better,” Poe said. Ben smiled. It didn't reach his eyes, but Poe could feel a tendril of exhausted gratitude and affection being pressed into him, the emotion not his own but familiar enough to be part of himself all the same. They weren't two halves of a single whole, never had been, but what they were fit together nonetheless, and it was all the more rewarding for how hard they had worked to make it so; for how hard they continued to work. Poe would not lose Ben, not to assassins, not to the Jedi, not to Senate, not even to _himself_ , and if to preserve Ben Poe had to march alongside him to face down a sea of hungry predators then he damn well _would,_ and he wouldn't let Ben or anyone else dissuade him from that course of action.

There would be a reckoning when Poe returned to the Resistance base, that he knew, but that, too, was a problem for the future. The present, shaky thing that it was, was what beckoned to him now in the tilt of Ben's head, the soft glint of his eyes—something he was never able to fully hide, not even as Senator Amidala. Swallowing the blood in his throat, tapering down the war boiling in his veins, Poe offered an arm to Ben, and was only a little surprised when Ben accepted it after a moment's thought.

 _Together_ , _then_ , was the message, and it would remain such even when Ben was forced into the light, Poe the lingering shadow at his back: each other's greatest secrets, and greatest weaknesses. 

"To battle, then," Poe said, and felt the answer in the straightening of Ben's shoulders, the dangerous gleam in his eyes as he turned his face in the direction of the gathered crowds.

"To battle."

They would fight together, they would _win_ , and in doing so they would send a stronger message than the fear Ben's attackers had tried to instil by striking at the New Republic's heart. This Poe swore, and he used it to lengthen his stride and straighten his own shoulders as they left Ben's rooms and made their way towards a new battlefield, different than any Poe had faced, _not his_ _element,_ but it was Ben's and so therefore Poe would make it a part of himself, as Ben was part of him. _Yes_ , Poe thought fiercely, glancing once at the man he called husband as they stopped at the threshold of war, the reporters outside held back only by the height of the balcony Ben would be addressing them from and the guards posted everywhere the naked eye could see. Looking at Ben now, Poe felt a grim sort of determination spark in his chest, mingling with the lingering fear and the fierce desire to watch Ben succeed in everything; to watch their enemies fall before them.

Outside, the Senate's liaison spoke, her voice carrying, setting the stage. At his side, Ben was a live wire, intensity and purpose bleeding from every pore, straightening every back within a five kilometre radius and drawing every eye to him, even partially concealed by the shadows. _He has no_ _idea,_ Poe thought, a wry twitch to his mouth. He said nothing.

 _I'm here,_ he thought instead. Ben's eyes flickered. He had heard. _I'm here, and I'm damn well not leaving, so you'd better not leave me, either._

"—Senator Amidala," the liaison finished, and Poe felt the answering shift of Ben's thoughts, the narrowing of his focus.

"Go," Poe said. Then, with a sharp smile, he watched as Ben threw his shoulders back, clenched his fists, and stepped into the light.

The galaxy wouldn't know what hit then, and Poe intended to savour every minute of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Is this fandom even still alive? I honestly have no idea, but here I am, four years later, dumping 4k of an AU I never intended to revisit on you all nonetheless. Sound off if you're here?
> 
> I can be found on [tumblr](https://empirics.tumblr.com/), puttering around like an old bridge goblin. I'm a bridge goblin who likes friends, however, so please feel free to drop by for a chat 🖤


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